


Coyote

by thecarlysutra



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-05
Updated: 2010-06-05
Packaged: 2017-10-12 17:01:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/127071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecarlysutra/pseuds/thecarlysutra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harmony is a careless rabbit.  Post-"NFA."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coyote

  
Las Vegas is a desert, the strip like a neon gem on the face of Mars. It's such false comfort; cut off from electricity and Cristal dealers, the city would denigrate into Mad Max in a matter of days.

Eve shakes sand out of her eight hundred dollar Christian Louboutin suede pumps.

***

Harmony giggles as the champagne bubbles tickle her nose. Eve is a hunter, and her clever predator's eyes are fixed. She watches with detached ease as Harmony laughs and shakes her gold hair, as she unsteadily grips the neck of the champagne bottle and pours herself another flute full. Eve runs her tongue along the roof of her mouth, tastes the sticky sweet tang of the champagne. She prefers oaky, smoky aged whiskeys older than America, but Harmony only drinks things that come in shades of pink.

And you should always tailor your bait to suit your prey.

***

The casino floor holds a familiar feeling. Bated breath, the euphoria of throwing your bold will against the odds. What Eve misses more than anything, even more than the promise of immortality, is the feeling of playing with loaded dice. Gambling is no fun when you're not with the house.

Not that Eve plans on playing against the house much longer. All she needs is a little leverage. If there's one thing she learned at UC Santa Cruz, it's that a dirty little secret goes a long, long way.

***

Harmony tastes like Golden Grahams. Her nut brown body is softer than it looks, supple. Giving. She is ensnared in the expensive penthouse sheets, writhing languidly. Alcohol has made her movements slow, exaggerated. Her hair is a golden spill on the pillows, rays of light emanating from her. Eve thinks briefly of medieval paintings of saints, the sun painted behind their heads, exaggerated halos. She thinks briefly of this, and then she gently pulls on her eight hundred dollar Christian Louboutin suede pumps. It was an extra hundred for the fuchsia, but worth it.

Besides, in a few hours, she won't have to worry about money anymore. Think of the shoes as a little splurge to celebrate: she's getting her job back.

***

Harmony sparkles. A glittering, pink sparkle, a cheerfulness that could push you back six feet. But it's affected; Eve recognizes a false persona—it takes one to know one. Las Vegas is the perfect setting for Harmony: all those bright lights, the buildings glittering in the dead desert sun; it's an affected, false beauty. An insecure and playable beauty.

The best kind.

Harmony is hard to find, camouflaged here in the land of sparkle. All the women out here look the same, just as in Los Angeles. They have the same implants, the same extensions. They dye their hair the same shade, and they tan and shop at the same boutiques. Eve is a proud outcast with her mouse brown hair and snub nose, her modest silhouette and chicly understated wardrobe.

It's the voice, the husky, unusual whine that helps Eve find her.

"Wait, seven—is that—yay! Yay me!"

Harmony, glittering in a sequined pink sheath, flushed with champagne and elation, jumps up from the table, her arms raised in triumph. The cheerleader touchdown pose. Old habits die hard.

Conspicuous. Harmony is a careless rabbit, and she's alerted the wolves to her presence.

***

It is early morning, but the streets are still buzzing with life, are still lit with false light. Eve walks down the strip, running her tongue along the roof of her mouth. Champagne and Golden Grahams.

Outside the Palms, she can hear voices, chords, Wayne Newton. In the same spot, from the desert: the long, hollow howl of coyotes.  



End file.
